Excerpts from Various Notes Strewn Across
by Ning Ning
Summary: It's a DHr story describing their relationship: the troubles, the good times, and, finally, the end that they've all been preparing themselves for. Implied character death, sexual situations, cussing. COMPLETE. NOMINATED AT DANGEROUS LIAISONS AWARDS.
1. Part 1 of 4: Introduction

**Excerpts from Various Notes Strewn Around the Bedroom.**

**By:** Ning.

**Disclaimer:** All to do with Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. I just borrow from time to time. "Excerpts from Various Notes Strewn Across the Bedroom of April Connolly, February 24, 1997" is by Cursive and I have borrowed some of their lyrics.

**AN:** Pre-HBP. "Excerpts" has been nominated at Dangerous Liaisons for "Why Didn't I Think of That" Award (Most Original Plot) and "I Never Really Loved You Anyway" Award (Best Drama/Angst).

**Warnings:** Angst. Lime/Lemon-ish. Cussing. Implied character death. Alcohol use.

_Part 1 of 4_: _Introduction._

The Second War was still in effect. To be involved on either side was imminent death, and as the older parents tried to shield their children from the Grim Reaper, they were sent to Hogwarts.

Hogwarts was not the same as it was in fifth year. The whole student body believed in the war. There was a quick hush whenever the Golden Trio walked into any room. While they tried to lead lives as normal as they could, it wasn't the same as their first years. As they grew older, as they realized that the War was affecting everyone and everything possibly related, they began to discover that they needed an outlet. Each person in Hogwarts looked for something to lean on, looked for something that they could "handle," so to speak. Harry was easily taken to being comforted by Ginny Weasley; those two were usually seen together, fingers interlaced while Ginny's natural disposition inflamed Harry. The War was affecting him the hardest, and it was easy to tell from his wan expression, his thin smiles, and his lack of laughter.

Ron was trying hard to be Harry's best friend and yet set a place for himself in the world without Harry's influence. He was trying to be known as Ron Weasley, not just as Harry's sidekick. Although he loved Harry like a brother, he became a bit more competitive over the years, but always, _always_, in the end, he would listen to Harry, knowing that Harry had more experience than Ron would ever want to have. Ron immersed himself into Quidditch, into training. He had learned over the summer at Grimmauld's from Hermione, his sister, and mother (and of course, Harry), on how to pace himself when around girls: how to read the signs for girls, how to catch a girl. Ron was now known to flit around girls, having one hang onto one arm, and another waiting for later. But his good cheer and devotion to his cause made him still amiable even after all the terrors that were being faced.

Hermione seemed to be the one who changed for the least. She was still obsessed with her grades; her belief was that the war would end soon because of the Prophecy, and although she hated any type of "divine intervention," she believed in the Prophecy, and she believed in Harry. She believed in the good of all people. She believed that the War would end soon and she would need her grades if she were to be awarded any position in the Ministry, or anywhere else for that matter. She still accompanied the boys on their late night roundabouts, helping them stay out of trouble. She continued to learn spells, staying up late in the night reading her history, reading on spells and things that could possibly be of some help for the Order. Even as a student at Hogwarts, she was the bookworm for the Order; she was the one they could count on to research new spells and the like.

However, Hogwarts did not serve as the microcosm that a few parents were worried about. There was no dictator leadership nor was there brutal torture to the unfortunate souls born with or without magic.

All were equal at Hogwarts.

Whether innocuously or not, esoteric groups were formed, relationships and the like intertwining so intricately that by the time it was the middle of seventh year, it was hard to tell who was going to become a Death Eater and who was not. Everyone was working for the War – whether for the side of good or bad, whether it be consciously or unconsciously.

Nothing was ever so clear and distinct and yet so blurred at the same time than was the Golden Trio's relationship with the progeny of convicted Death Eaters. It seemed that it was always considered normal for those three to argue with Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, and the rest of their cronies. It was clear that it was Malfoy that ignited their affair, his bland and callous remarks aimed purposely to rile. And as expected, there was no help from Professor Snape, but it was suspected that they did these things to maintain the natural order of things at Hogwarts before everyone was stunned at the revival of Voldemort.

Harry had seemed to grow tired of it, his hand always ready on his wand (already Auror reflexes as Moody had once put it) and his voice telling Malfoy to bugger off. Ron's temper was still barely manageable, and since he had trained over the years, his punch became more practiced than from his younger years. But he had been forewarned to stay out of trouble at all costs, no matter what the dirty things were to happen.

The only person who would face the challenge to Malfoy was Hermione. She was the only one who would attempt to put him in his place, to tell him that his mouthing off was nothing more than inbred locutions as an attempt to continue his wicked and sordid life. Hermione and Malfoy's arguments were expected every day since the beginning of sixth year, her face red from screaming, and his vein popping from his forehead from holding himself back. There were also various moments when they would whip their wands out, but their friends would jump in the middle of the fight at that moment.

But it came to the point where these disputes were the daily dosage of normalcy for the student body of Hogwarts, along with the teacher faculty. It became a need for these two to argue so that everyone could laugh or whisper amongst themselves: "_Oh, there they go again; I wonder what they're arguing about _this _time..."_

Then came that fateful night where Dumbledore had just announced again his speech on inter-house unity. ("As unexpected as it may seem now," he had said, "perhaps it is the time for the attempt to be made. Perhaps it is time for the bridge to be broached.") Hermione had walked out of the kitchens, asking the House elves to please, brew another pint of Marmaudy's Strong Coffee Brew for her for tomorrow morning. She was walking away from the portrait and she felt the hair on the back of her neck stick up.

Back at Grimmauld Place, she understood how dire it was to trust her instincts.

She spun quickly, but was unable to scream as one hand clamped across her mouth, and the other locked itself around her small wrist. She began to struggle, her teeth attempting to bite into the skin of her kidnapper, and until she heard Malfoy's silky voice to stop attempting at causing a scene or else he would break every bone in her hand, she stopped her ministrations against him.

She was prepared to yell at him until she lost her voice, but when he secured her against the wall, his thumbs digging deep into her skin, Hermione couldn't help but feel a little afraid. Her first thought was that maybe she had pushed his buttons too far; maybe he would flat out openly threaten her or her family. But instead, he had softened the presure, his fingers trailing lightly to rest around her neck.

Hermione closed her eyes when Malfoy's thumbs pressed against the base of her throat.

"Open your eyes, Granger. I'm not going to kill you," he spoke barely above a whisper, leaning his lips towards her ear, "at least, not yet."

Hermione shivered, placing her hands on his chest and trying to push him away. He barely budged, and she whispered back venomously, "What are you doing right now, Malfoy? I could report this to Dumbledore for harassment."

"But you won't." He stated simply without hesitation and without looking into her defiant eyes. Yes, he knew that she wouldn't. She wouldn't dare bring something like this so trivial to Dumbledore's notice considering other important matters. Suddenly, Granger felt his lips against her collarbone, working up to her neck, to kiss right behind her ear. She clutched him tightly to her reflexively, and when he pulled back, she cursed her hormones.

"You still haven't answered my question, Malfoy." She tried to change the subject, her breath hitching at the near proximity of his male body. "What could possibly make you ambush me in the middle of the hallway?"

"I think you knew perfectly well what was going to happen between us, Miss Granger," he murmured against her thick curls, pulled back in a simple ponytail, allowing for convenient access to her creamy and pale neck. He kissed it, running up to her left cheek, getting closer and closer to her lips. "I know you've felt it. It's like you almost made it happen between us. It's like you cast a love spell over me but we both know how smart and _sensible_ you are – you would never do _that_ for the repercussions are disastrous. So I know it has to be real, Granger." His lips were a hairbreadth away, speaking in low and seductive tones, "It _must_ be real."

And before she could even speak, his lips were softly over hers, their kiss soft and gentle much like the chaste kisses that Hermione and her past boyfriends had shared, but much unlike those kisses because of the underlying passion. Their mouths melded together, soft at first, and then more insistent as time went on. His hands were wrapped around her hair, his hips pushed against her in a need that was demanding for satisfaction.

Hermione was wrapped up in the kiss. She couldn't help but feel his tongue running across her lips to gain entry. She couldn't help but feel lightheaded and woozy when his hands traveled down her sides, lightly skimming her breasts, as they finally rested on her hips. He gyrated against her, and she brought one leg up to wrap around him. He aided her, curling one hand around the back of her knee, bringing her closer. He wrenched his mouth away from hers, panting against her ear, "I need you. I need you now."

Hermione felt her heart pounding in her ears, blood rushing to her head when she heard those words. She wasn't sure how to respond to this boy who had made her miserable for most of her time at Hogwarts. But to see the urgency, to hear the desperation in his words almost made her believe him. Almost. But she needed to let go of all the energy, of all the anger she had dwelling inside of her, and if Draco Malfoy was willing to shag her, then by all means, Hermione felt ready for it. If the boys could have their fun, then she could have hers.

"_Then take me."_

That was near the end of sixth year. They had numerous trysts, dirty words being said to each other while they were alone. He had given her supposed plans of the Death Eaters, what they had planned on doing. He had warned her about her family, and she had told Dumbledore to do what he could to protect them. After an "unsuspected" raid by the Death Eaters to eliminate the Grangers, Ministry Aurors were able to capture two, killing one of them in combat. Hermione's parents were saved, thanks to Malfoy. He never expected her to tell him plans of the Order, and she never let a secret tumble from her lips. It seemed to be an unspoken pact. However, no matter how friendly he was becoming with her, she still wasn't sure how much faith she could put in Malfoy's words, but they never spoke about that.

By the time sixth year had ended, they had taken one last ride with each other, on the Hogwarts Express and Hermione on top of him. His hands were on her hips, pounding in and out of her, his fingers digging into her. He encouraged her with moans and whispers of "yeah, Granger, yeah, just like that," before he stiffened under her, leaving red splotches of finger marks on her back.

Finally, as they tried to catch their breath for a minute before heading back out into their divided worlds, he stroked her hair, whispering against her cheek that he loved her, and that he never wanted to lose her. Even if this War continued, he wanted to be with her for as long he possibly could. If he survived, of course.

Hermione couldn't believe completely in the things that he was saying. She was female after all, her hopes high at the possibility of a future after the war, of peace with someone that she was with right now. She knew that what she had with him was private and explosive, but she also knew how vulnerable inside Malfoy really was.

During the time that they had slept together and silently studied together (the pretense being that Malfoy needed tutoring from the best and obviously Hermione was the _best_ student academically), she had known that he was insecure about his life. He needed to be in control, and his life was anything but in his control. Being with Hermione made him feel like he was in power over his life. Only when he was with her did he feel that he was able to make choices for and by himself. Hermione understood that.

Malfoy knew that one of the reasons that Hermione was with him, willingly, was so that she could feel less repressed. She wanted to let go of her inhibitions, and she knew that he was willing to please her in any way he could. There were small caresses in public, the thrill of almost being caught a fetish in both of them.

As a Malfoy, professing any type of feeling was hard and unheard of for him, so when his love for her fell from his lips, he had truly felt it. He had truly felt that if the time came, he would lay his life down for her, Malfoy heritage be damned. But he also knew that she was wary, as always her Gryffindor loyalty taking place over everything. He knew that, and he had expected so, but a tiny part inside of him wanted Hermione to say back to him that she was in love with him as well. That during seventh year, everything would be just like how it was now.

The summer came and went, cryptic messages sent by night owl post were enough to display their affection to each other. It became suspicious when Hermione received mail and was beaming; Ron and Harry's questions were left unanswered, and all Hermione told Ginny (who, in turn, told the boys) was that the letters were from a "suitor that she's quite fond of." And it was left at that until the first day of the last year at Hogwarts.

Malfoy's Manor was under constant surveillance by the Ministry so any type of mail was scanned and cleared or denied. Whenever Draco read letters from Hermione, he felt pride rushing through his loins, pride at being able to decipher Muggle codes that she had insisted on, and pride at having such strong feelings towards Hermione. Fights broke out more under Lucius and Draco, their verbal sparring almost breaking glass in their home. However, with the grace of all elite socialite women, Narcissa commanded for them to stop, declaring that such behavior was unacceptable for Malfoys to behave as. Being the only person that Lucius and Draco ever obeyed together, they decided to leave their fights for when Narcissa was not home.

And that was their summer. Not once did they see each other, but they sent small tokens of affection for remembrance. They also knew that they had been faithful to each other. Even when Ron had started to flirt with Hermione even more, she had laughed and shrugged him off and had told him half-jokingly, "You always wait until the last minute, don't you, Ron."

Draco's father had given his son a woman to play with one week in the summer. Lucius said that he was bored and he wanted Draco to have some fun before returning to the virginal school of Hogwarts. Draco dared not touch this woman due to his promise to Hermione. He had told the woman straight out that he would not do anything with her, and as she smiled with lips that curled her white teeth, she nodded, and simply began to tell him of her life, at his request.

Then the beginning of seventh year came.


	2. Part 2 of 4: Where Should I Begin?

_Part 2 of 4: Where Should I Begin?_

Hermione's legs were tangled with the 3000-thread Egyptian cotton that Malfoy had given to her over the summer. He had said to her that it was made from only the best weaving witches known in Egypt, and it was the same type of thread that they used to pray to Isis. At first, Hermione felt awkward for falling asleep on something that was supposedly used for something so reverent, but after feeling the texture of it, she never gave it another thought.

The sun was shining through the golden blinds, some of its rays falling across her sweaty face. Her curls were damp and matted against her forehead from sweat, beads prominent on her back. She was lying on her chest, one arm dangling from her bed, the other folded underneath her pillow.

There was a bottle of Purple Hippogriff Vodka on the floor.

It was uncharacteristic for Hermione to drink, but as the end of the year came, her House was bootlegging liquor, preparing for the big Graduation day. She had begun to drink near April or May, some nights where she decided to enjoy her friends' company rather than be a sorry old prude. She never drank excessively, never drank to the point where she blacked out. She seemed friendlier, more approachable, and when the Trio was drunk, they seemed to be more like the way they were before the horrors they had encountered.

Drinking, for them, was another type of a sad escape.

However, last night, Hermione had stayed up at night, drinking small amounts of the vodka that burned her throat viciously. Her quill scratched ruthlessly against an old parchment notebook that Harry had given her for Christmas. It was an authentic journal from the fourteenth century, loosely bound, but creamy and exquisite in nature. Hermione was fond of journals, and Harry had known that Hermione liked to put her thoughts down ever since the Second War began.

She had drunk nearly half of the contents of the bottle, and her handwriting was becoming a bit sloppy compared to her neat, impeccable, sober scrawl. While she was sitting on the couch, scribbling with only the fire from the torch as her source of light, she heard the portrait door open for the Common Room for the Head Boy and Girl. Malfoy walked in, a sly and goofy grin on his face, and as she stared at him with bleary eyes, she gathered her things and stalked to her room. He had stood there, having the decency to look abashedly at his shoes, waiting for her to leave. When she was walking away from him, a piece from her journal fell onto the floor, and as he eyed it, he felt his heart drop to his stomach.

They did not speak to each other that night.

Things were rocky, so to speak, between them. Again, it was near the end of the year. Thus, it was near the end of their determined safety – once outside of the walls of Hogwarts, they had their whole lives to fight for Voldemort or to fight against Voldemort. They had their whole future to risk their lives for their cause.

Seventh year did not bode well for Hermione and Malfoy's future.

During Christmas break, as many families welcomed their sons and daughters back home to celebrate a time of festivity, there was a massacre worse than the one that Sirius Black was accused of. Death Eaters infiltrated and attacked Muggle's houses, a block at a time, where they knew children who went to Hogwarts lived. The Aurors were able to come and prevent other hundreds of people from terrible deaths. At this point, the Muggle government had to be informed of a precarious war, and to beware of men in black robes with sticks, otherwise known as "wands," pointed at them.

Hermione had stayed at Hogwarts with Ron and Harry, but Draco had left to his Wiltshire mansion. The last time they had talked before he left was in front of the fire that they had started in the fireplace, her body snuggled next to his under the flannel quilt that her mother had bought for her. He had said nothing of the War, and they had talked of what their kids were to look like if the possibility of a future (that they could call _theirs_) was to happen. And when Hermione had begun to sniffle when she stated that they might die, he had told her that perhaps in this life they would not be allowed to be with each other, but in their next life, he would continue to search for her for their souls were connected. He had whispered against her ear, his hand traveling past her stomach, saying that he would not be able to settle for anyone _like_ Hermione, that he could only be with her, and no one else.

She had stopped crying, pushing her hips towards his hands. And when he slipped his fingers into her, she had closed her eyes and moaned. She had leaned her head back for a kiss from him, and they kissed each other hard, her tongue snaking in to caress his. He rolled her nipples with his fingers, tugging lightly, and encouraging her to come for him. When she arched her back and bit her lip, her vaginal walls spasmodically closing around his fingers, he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean of her essence. He joked, saying that finally he had a decent meal at Hogwarts, and Hermione laughed at him, kissing him softly on the lips before staring at the fire dreamily.

He hadn't said anything about Death Eater attacks. So when she heard news of the atrocity, she felt betrayed by him, believing throughout Christmas break that he had known about it. When he came back, she had screamed at him, given him the silent treatment, and finally, breaking down and telling him that he was a horrible being, worse than his father. He had lunged at her, grabbing her shoulders and said:

"Hermione. You better calm down and tell me what the bloody hell you're talking about," he clipped these words out in a deadly tone, spitting them out at her tear-streaked face.

"The Christmas massacre, you dolt! You knew, didn't you? You knew that it was going to happen, and now countless lives are _dead_, and we could have done something to save them. All of this! All of this is all your fault!"

He had shoved her aside, and she banged against the wall, a vase full of white carnations shattering into hundreds of pieces onto the floor. She cringed, moving her feet away from the shards, but he ignored it, glaring at her.

"I can't believe you. I didn't know anything about that." His eyes narrowed, and he seethed. "You don't think that made me angry? You don't think that affected me? I couldn't write or say anything lest my father were to find out! You _know _that." He began to move towards her, "Haven't you been listening to _any_thing that I've been saying to you, Granger?"

Hermione shifted her head away from him, staring at the flame torch, watching the fire flickering and moving about. She pursed her lips together, holding her tears in, squinting her eyes. She inhaled deeply, and finally, staring at the floor, she asked for his forgiveness. "I'm sorry that I accused you like that. I…I don't know what I was thinking – what I _am_ thinking. Oh, Draco –"

Malfoy nodded his head. "Yeah," was all he said, and he had walked to his room, closing the door behind him.

Hermione stared at the broken vase pieces, collecting each one manually, letting her tears finally fall. When she had placed them into a clump of broken glass, she whispered _Reparo_, and the vase was as good as new. She set it on the table again. She locked herself in the bathroom, washing her face and drying her tears off.

A couple months later, and this was where they were. Malfoy and Hermione began to spend more time in their House's Common Rooms, drinking with their friends. They would come back to their Head Dorms, maybe making love or fucking like rabbits. Other times, their hips had this way of denying access. But lately, Hermione began to find incriminating evidence towards him. He had bruises that he claimed were from Quidditch practice, but honestly, Hermione thought, what are the odds of a Seeker to be bludgeoned by a Bludger? Of course, not with their quick reflexes.

And there were rumors floating in the mill between table to table in the Great Hall. No one knew of the romance between Malfoy and Hermione, but there were still references to Malfoy's promiscuity, also concerning her. One of them she had eavesdropped on and taken ten points off for slander (of _her_ name): "_I wonder how Hermione feels when Malfoy goes back to their room stinking of sex. Hah, I bet she gets jealous 'cause she'd never be able to land him – or anything! – like that."_

She never brought her accusations of cheating to light. But she began to grow more suspicious over the days. She pretended that nothing was wrong between them, but inside, she was ready to hex him with all the curses she had memorized. She was aching fiercely, knowing that she was possibly being made a strumpet.

Last night, of all nights, while sipping her alcohol, she had decided once and for all to pick her bags up and say goodbye to him (in the proverbial sense, of course). She began to write her notes down, her accusations privy to her own eyes. She didn't think it would be difficult to lament on the situation she was in, but she also didn't think it would be so easy (and yet so hard) for her to understand what was happening.

_Entry 104._

_I'm reluctant to believe what I hear from the mouths of these people, for they do have a tendency to create hyperbolic situations to keep their minds active and survive from the heat of the sun. But I do remember from my friends back at home (well, the Muggle world) that when people say something they normally wouldn't say, or if they expressed their feelings explicitly while drunk, it usually means that they mean it. Case in point: Adrian. I still talk to him, and he says that he misses me and he wishes that I could come home more often. I agree with Adrian; I think I might be forgetting what home is. But I don't want him to get hurt – I need to be able to protect him from anything that could happen._

_I've never told Draco about Adrian. I never thought I would need to._

_But it's been different lately between us. It hasn't been the first time that I've mentioned this, I know, and I think I want it to be the last. If I was to say these things to him... I guess I'd start off with "why I should leave…". No, I think I would start it with "why I'm leaving you...(for him?) Well, let's see here...where should I begin?"_

_Yeah, sounds good if I had the guts to even say something like that._

_I'm tired of this, tired of the sideways glances from him, tired of feeling like walking on eggshells. I hate it when we plan some things together, and I have to stay up all night, just for him to come in: his clothes, his hair, his whole bloody body dipped in alcohol. Like he took a bloody bath in it. Sometimes, he doesn't come in until right before it's time for breakfast. It's like we're already married – naïve wife waiting for her husband to come home after barhopping._

_("It's a fuck and run.")_

_More rumors. More mouths running off about Draco sleeping around. Supposedly, he's already bed most of the seventh year Slytherin whores, oh, I mean girls. Now he's working on Hufflepuffs – the myth being that they have sex to relieve stress, no matter whom the other partner is. And the girls all look at him like some kind of god, like someone they revere, and if he even so much as glances at them, they clutch their chests and giggle._

_Others simply wink at him coyly, but I never see any of them say anything to him. I never see him say anything to them either; I've never even heard any type of encouragement, but still._

_He's changed lately. Sometimes I feel like I'm nothing to him. As if I don't have any value to him anymore. Like I don't matter – everything that seemed to have spurned his desire and want (and love?) for me has faded away, almost abruptly. I guess since January, it's really dissipated. Sometimes I feel that he's only with me because...well, he has to be. Because we share a dorm and we have to see each other every day. It's like as if he thinks that he's doing me a favor by not mentioning this between us._

_Even though it was just another night that had resulted in another fight, it was quickly resolved, of course, by the next day on his bed, but I can't help remembering something that he had screamed in my face. I had yelled at him for making me miss out on times with Harry and Ron while I waited for him until 5 in the morning just so that he could show up pissed-ass drunk. He said that he felt trapped with me, that it's amazing how we can even fall in the same bed together, that he wished that he could be fucking someone else instead. I had wanted to kill him at that moment, and I had my wand in my hand, and I was ready to do some damage. But he had pulled out his own wand, and we threw threats until finally he grabbed me into his arms, telling me that he was sorry that he said something as callously stupid as that. I had forgiven him, and we made love for the rest of the day, and he had told me how much he appreciated me, and you know, I felt like we were one of those newborn lovers. It seems like the only time that he can be romantic now is when we fight and make up. And I hate that._

These words danced around Malfoy's drunk mind, the only theme that he was getting from this excerpt from her diary was that she was preparing to leave him. To leave him alone and empty for the rest of his life. He didn't know what to do (or what he did), but he knew that he couldn't just let her walk out of his life like that.

She had too much over him. Too much power. It would be easy for her to take advantage of him, and he couldn't let that possibly come out in the world as volatile as it is what with the Second War and Voldemort and his "destiny." Moreover, he couldn't let Hermione walk out of his life forever. He was dependent on her: her smile, her laughter, her touch, her sex, everything. He despised his dependency and yet became more hooked day after day. He would have withdrawal symptoms if he couldn't so much as hold her for a few seconds: his hands would shake and he would break out in a sweat, worried that she was thinking of someone else, doing something else.

He scratched the underside of his left arm, his thoughts scrambling madly, knowing he couldn't do anything to comprehend her words fully at this moment. Malfoy needed to be sober to read in between her lines. Choking back on an unwonted sob, he stumbled to his room, wiping spittle from his lips. He took all his clothes off, sleeping in the nude, letting his body rest against the cool silver sheets on his bed. Before his brain shut off, he vaguely realized that it was the first time he had slept in his own bed (at Hogwarts) since the beginning of seventh year. Even the first day of term didn't stop them to re-acquaint themselves with each other's bodies…

_What hurts even more is that he doesn't seem to realize what he's doing! He doesn't even seem to understand that he's pushing me away, that he's making me feel terrible about myself... making me feel empty... I just wish we could hold each other in our arms with the same exact feeling as before. Anything – as long as it's not this._

_I hate getting involved in things that I don't understand. Malfoy is no book; I can barely read most of his signs. I just can't help but remember (and smile faintly, curse me and my soft heart!) that he promised the world to me. He said that he could be (and I quote): "That Prince Charming that you Muggle females seem to be so anxious to find." I only laughed and played it off as nothing, if only to hide from him how much I wanted that to be true. God, how sentimental of me. How foolish and female. I never thought that it would come to this. I never thought we would have gotten so intimately involved. Oh God, silly me. I thought it could actually happen. But now?_

_("When you said you loved me, I knew I was getting fucked."_)

_God, just seeing him makes me angry and frustrated. And it's not a good type of sexual frustration anymore. I guess that's why it's better if I lea –_

_He just came in. _


	3. Part 3 of 4: Yeah, I Remember

_Part 3 of 4: Yeah, I remember, I remember, I remember_.

It was Saturday, that much Draco could discern. It was Saturday and sometime near afternoon. He bolted upright in his bed, thinking he was late to Quidditch practice (and he was the captain!), making him scramble to get ready, until he realized that last night they were celebrating their successful season. He remembered vaguely that he had given a toast to all of his teammates for doing their duty by playing with as much passion as they could muster. They cheered him, thanking him, pouring drink after drink even after he grinned and half-heartedly asked them to stop.

Malfoy lied back in bed, dragging a pillow to wrap his arms around and place his head on top. He needed to think, his eyes trailing towards the yellowed parchment that was placed prominently on his desk. He groaned, cursing the sun and the current heat that was stifling his room. Dragging his feet out of bed, he sat on the edge, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He padded his way to his private bathroom, staring at the mirror, and grimacing at his unpolished look. He hated looking in the mirror in the mornings. It reminded him of the things he had done late at night.

His eyes were red and slightly puffy – nothing that a well placed charm couldn't handle. He just hated the fact that they were _like_ that; he never had that problem until recently. He handled his bathroom duty before jumping into the shower, the lukewarm water cleansing him. Malfoy placed his head under the water, his palms flat against the wall as he braced himself. He looked down at the floor, reminiscing over the past couple of months. Plagued with guilt at that moment, he decided to drench himself with cold water as punishment. His high-pitched scream bounced inside the bathroom.

Sprawling back against the bed, water droplets running down his lean torso, he _Accio_-ed the parchment. He read Hermione's words for what it seemed to be the hundredth time. His imagination flew to the likes of this unheard character "Adrian," and what he could _possibly_ have that Malfoy didn't have. He couldn't have Malfoy's aristocratic looks from the high nose to the polished hands; he couldn't have a voracious appetite for Hermione nor be able to keep up with her. Hermione was gifted with the world of magic (and the world of the mundane – no, Muggles, yes, that's what Draco meant), and Adrian couldn't possible even _begin_ to fathom what that meant.

Malfoy considered himself to be the perfect match to Hermione. And even though it was a very unlikely match, he was grateful for the time that he was allotted with her. It was such a shame that she was born from Muggle parents.

He supposed he was angry at himself and his decisions at the end of fifth year. He was angry at being easily lured into a trap by Granger and Potter when he was working for Umbridge. He hated how Granger always seemed to figure all the missing pieces of the puzzle, and he also detested the fact that she always had to _explain_ those things to Potter and Weasel. If they didn't have her, he scoffed; they would ultimately be destroyed by Voldemort.

But when Malfoy heard of the battle between his father and the Aurors, he knew that meant that the Dark Lord was ready to confront the magic world. It wouldn't be long before he began seeking out Muggles, Mudbloods, and Squibs. He had understood then at that time that _now_ people's lives were at stake whether magical blood or no.

Malfoy hated the way that his father would tell him that his future was to serve Voldemort for as long he lived. Malfoy was determined to create his own destiny, that only _he_ was responsible for himself. Now, sitting quietly in his bed, he rubbed his lips when he remembered his summer of fifth year.

"It is almost time for you to take the Mark, my boy," Lucius had spoken excitedly to him. He was sitting in the mahogany, high-back chair in the kitchen, the _Daily Prophet_ spread out in front of him. He was whispering to him, his paranoia coming to the point where he thought that the Ministry had placed spells around his house so that they could hear every little thing going on. Draco was rather disgusted by the way that Lucius had begun to act, knowing perfectly well that the Ministry could not do that (right?).

"It's time for you to make us proud," he continued, hard glints in his eye as he stared at his son. "The Dark Lord wants you to take the Mark as soon as possible so that others will know that you have been branded as _his_."

Draco reared back with scorn. "Father, please do not mistake my tone as disobedient, but surely you don't mean that I must be tattooed while _school_ is in session?"

Lucius had stared at him blankly. At that moment, Draco wanted as little as possible to do with Voldemort, his Father, all that Death Eater rubbish. He couldn't _possibly_ be expecting to be cavorting with these psychopathic hypocrites.

Draco explained with a sneer, "It would be rather _obvious_ if I appeared at school with a black blemish on my exquisitely pale left arm, Father. Although my fellow acquaintances in Slytherin would be very excited, I cannot say the same to all my other peers in that blasted school. In fact, it would create even more suspicion, thus resulting in Potter and his cronies following me and attempting to using Polyjuice Potion to try to wrangle secrets out of me. It would also increase the suspicion from the Headmaster, as well." He was staring at his father while he spoke those words, carefully calculating his expression.

Apparently, he wasn't calculating it carefully enough.

Lucius's hand was around Draco's throat within seconds, his nails blurring with speed as he dug into Draco's skin. Draco dared not to close his eyes, his mercurial orbs shifting slightly from the left to right. He felt the force of his father's hand crushing his esophagus, his breathing channel closing, and he had to resist the urge to fight his father off. He couldn't show his father fear.

"I have given you much freedom, Draco, and I have spoiled you since the day you were born. But don't you dare take that to an advantage; even I will call upon the Killing Curse against you. You shall never _dare _to disrespect me ever again, nor do I expect the same contempt when you are on your knees in front of the Dark Lord. I have let you fail me repeatedly, what with Potter cavorting around, shoving his Quidditch skills in your face, the Mudblood receiving higher marks than you in every single class, and even the Weasley pauper has more potential for greatness than you. And at this rate, the only thing that seems to place you above all others is your _expendability _to our cause," Lucius's breath hissed at Draco's face, his anger flaring in his eyes. "So, watch your step boy. You'll expect that mark right after your graduation, as you so will it."

With a flurry of his robes and a dashing stroke of his hand, Draco was flung across the room, his lip swollen and bleeding from the impact of the kitchen table, a nasty gash forming on the side of his head, beneath his blonde locks. Lucius had left the kitchen, his retreating back all that Draco could stare at as he vowed to take his father down.

When he returned to Hogwarts, he remembered seeing the gaunt faces of the Insufferable Trio, their tired eyes screaming they had seen horrors that no one else could see, and he could remember clearly how Granger's usually warm and lively brown eyes were hard and pensive. And as much as he detested the bushy-haired girl, he knew how much her current life was breaking her down inside.

To be completely honest, he had spent the first week and a half – maybe two – avoiding Hermione, testing her. And as he glanced at her from Prefect meetings, during meals or class, she seemed to be growing paler and thinner. Her cheekbones jutted harshly against her skin, and finally, after two weeks of silence, he broke it. She had carelessly dropped her wand while attempting to transfigure a jewelry box into a cat, her hands shaking from lack of sleep. Malfoy could see tears brimming at the surface, and perhaps she would have begun to weep bitterly if he hadn't stepped in and silkily mention how if she kept it up, Parkinson would soon be able to get the Head Girl position.

And he left her miserably frustrated, as she threw a small paperback at him and missed horribly. Her stifled moan of anger was nothing as Hermione quickly picked her wand up and shouted _Petrificus totalus!_ on Draco. Out of sheer luck, he had ducked to pick up the book as she threw the curse at him. When he saw that it hit Weasel, he grinned at her, "I would have never even known it was coming. Thanks, Granger." He quickly fled as Hermione ran to care for Ron, shooting darts from her eyes at Malfoy.

The next day he noticed her eating more, laughing, reading, becoming excited.

He felt that he had accomplished something. He realized at that moment that the children at Hogwarts were not ready for a War. They came to Hogwarts as a release, as a penchant for "normalcy." And they all needed to feel that, so Malfoy had come to the conclusion to act as if nothing had happened. To act as if he still reigned Slytherin and Hogwarts due to his dashing good looks and aristocratic beliefs. He used the term _mudblood_ out of his upbringing, using it only to rile his fellow classmates, but never daring to look straight in the eyes of who it was specifically aimed at.

All sixth-year-and-up prefects were assigned to hall duty, partnered with someone from another House for the whole year. (Apparently, it was safer to stick two school students together to patrol the halls – and no, of course they weren't going to take this time as a snog session.) Malfoy was stuck with the incessant talking of Alexandra Carnes from Hufflepuff – apparently the only person who wasn't scared of him. She suffered a minor accident that tragically landed her switching to become someone else's partner. Malfoy denied any type of recourse with her, of course, although he could barely contain his smirk. Then, after the month of January, Hermione's partner, Lon Byron (a pureblood from Slytherin who was quite cordial, much to Hermione's amusement) was ordered by his family to return home to take over the family business. Malfoy and Hermione were partner-less and it was against the rules for them to wander alone at night.

They became partners much to each other's chagrin.

At first, they had tried to insult each other, gauging each other's reactions. Later, it had calmed into playful banter and offhand remarks about each other's welfare. He had mentioned to her that eating breakfast was a vital meal to start the day, and she had told him that overloading his hair with hair products would make his strands easier to break and he would have to "up the dosage."

"Are you being serious, Granger? I surely hope you're not. Besides, what do _you_ know about hair when you have that mangled bird's nest on top of your head?" Still, he ran his fingers through his hair, slicking it back more, and hurried to catch up with Hermione's brisk pace. She had giggled slightly and said nothing. Malfoy smiled ruefully at her back before quickly replacing it with a scowl, and when they were done with hall duty, he retreated to his room, maneuvering swiftly through the Common Room and his dorm, so as not to wake anyone. He had stayed up that night, replaying all of their fights together in public, and all of their miniscule admonitions of friendship when in private. Huddling underneath his fluffy black down duvet, he came to a conclusion.

That was before he had cornered Hermione.

He felt deliciously rebellious when he began to memorize every curve of Hermione's body. He felt every part the bad boy when he knew where and how to kiss Hermione for her mews to grace his ears. Malfoy knew that his death was immediate if his father ever found out, but at that moment, he could have cared less. He was infatuated with everything about her: the wild untamed mane of rustic curls, the pink not-too-thin-but-not-too-thick lips, the innocent sway of her hips.

If anything, Malfoy had always been honest to her. He didn't mind hurting her feelings when it was time to be honest. Consequently, he didn't hold anything back when his father had sent him messages of future Death Eater attacks. However, when it was seventh year, Lucius received from the Dark Lord suspicions that someone was revealing certain information to the other side. Lucius had stopped telling his son anything of the Dark Lord's business, his anger apparent at Draco's earlier outburst during the summer.

When Hermione and Draco had become Head Girl and Boy, respectively, they had rushed into their Common Room immediately. They consecrated practically every part as theirs, their bodies a writhing heap of tangled legs and fumbled words of love and desire. They would stay in together, and when Hermione dragged out a Polaroid camera ("What's this? The pictures don't even move, Granger! What a waste of time," he smirked), they had snapped various amounts of pictures together. He had them all in his room, locked in a wooden box from Arabia that came with its own Unbreakable lock that only the specified owner could open. And even if they couldn't move (in the pictures), Hermione had explained to him, they were snapshots of Time, a way of cherishing that specific moment.

But, he supposed, he _hadn't_ been honest to her. After their argument about the attack on during Yuletide, he had understood that she didn't trust him the way that he trusted her. Which was frightening to admit to himself that he _did_ trust her in that way. He remembered feeling hurt and disbelief towards Hermione's reaction. He had stayed in his room (like how he was doing now, his fingers lightly tracing his arm), resolving to get her out from under his skin. He hated feeling vulnerable to her, knowing that he had sacrificed so much for her, and yet she took it for granted.

He had started taking up on other girls' propositions, his hands itching for a warm female body. And if he couldn't have Hermione care for him, then he wouldn't disillusion himself with her. He would make sure that he could correspond in rendezvous where he didn't give a damn about the other girl. There had only been one or two other girls, but in the end, he had come off so ashamed and guilty that he didn't dare look at them. He didn't dare keep up with their harrowing messages, asking for a repeat of their previous excursions. He pretended that they didn't exist.

It was less painful that way.

He would drink until he was smashed in the Slytherin House, knowing fully well that he should be condoning those activities, but he couldn't say anything when he was doing the same. He wondered if Hermione was allowing the same thing, but deciding that she probably wasn't and was doing her rightful Head Girl duties in denying them access to booze. But he realized over the months that he had never had to guess what she was doing. He always _knew_, and he never had to second-guess because he always asked her and she always told him. He knew the distance that was encroaching upon them, and he knew that it was mostly his fault, but he couldn't help but feel angry with her. It was her fault as well, he reasoned.

And back to present day, he felt resentment towards her, for actually even considering any relationship with this Muggle-born character, Adrian. He felt betrayed that she couldn't even talk to him, and that she had to write down thoughts for herself. And he felt like an ungrateful bastard for doing these things to her.

He stretched his sore muscles, his body bruised. He was unable to concentrate well, his grades not as stellar as it had been for him to achieve Head Boy status. He had the occasional slip-up, but the rest of his grades were as high as before. When he had to practice for Quidditch, he would fly aimlessly, forgetting to look for the Snitch as he tried to think of ways to be with Hermione again. A couple of times, a stray Bludger had hit him, and he would have almost fallen to the ground if he hadn't grasped onto his broom with dear life.

But he couldn't help feeling dejected, his hand itching to teach her a lesson, when Hermione had shrugged off his reasons of various black-and-blues on his body, her eyes staring at him accusing of lies. His anger had boiled and with a final snort of disgust, he had walked away from her, vowing to make her feel sorry.

But he didn't mean to go this far. And he didn't know what to do to stop and reconcile things.

He strolled over to his desk, his fingers twirling his quill. Over and over again, he couldn't think of anything to write towards her. If he started, he knew that he wouldn't be able to stop. He didn't even know how to begin; he wasn't sure if his feelings could be described accurately in written words. He was much better of a speaker than a writer.

_Hermione:_

_I suppose it just never crossed our minds to ever mention other people. I suppose it's because we always thought that we'd have each other for the rest of the year. You never told me about Adrian. But you're right; you probably never thought that you would need to. I stumbled upon your entry, and I don't think you would have ever told me about Adrian until it was too late._

_You really think this guy is going to make it all right to you? You know he could never understand anything about you. You know that. And you know the only person for you is ME. You're everything to me – from your rather annoying smarts to the perfect molding of your body to mine. And if you think you could possibly ever fall in love with him – you're lying, and you know it. You would be lying to yourself and to everyone around you. But maybe this one is it; maybe this is the one who will hold you in his arms, blissfully unaware of the fact that you could kill him with two simple words. Maybe he's the one who could hold conversations with you about all of the things you want to hear: pedigree, herbology, transfiguration, charms, S.P.E.W., yeah, maybe he'll keep you interested about whacking weeds or screwing a thing that you put in so that you can have light. I bet that's what you've always wanted, isn't it?_

_Or maybe I just know you too well (and you know that)._

_And as much as you say that I don't feel anything, I remember. I remember, I remember, not everything, but mostly everything. You don't give me enough credit, my dear. I still remember the times when I would hold you against the window in the Owlery, your hair parted from the side of your neck. I remember the time that I left you a love bite so big that Weasel and Potty thought someone had punched you. I remember when you would wait for me while I came back to the Common Room, and you would hold me and kiss me._

_You would do these things like I was the only man for you. I was the Prince Charming to your Muggle damsel in distress. Not that you ever really need saving, but please, let me keep my pride intact. Who else can match your wit, your fiery quips attempting to reduce my manhood? No one can truly appreciate you the way that I can._

_You told me that you could never be in love with another man. I guess that doesn't mean anything anymore?_

_And now you want to leave. Maybe I forgot a couple of things – it doesn't mean that I don't remember how it feels when you're lying naked next to me._

_I can still remember the way your body moves underneath mine, your moans telling me how good I am. It felt so lonely sleeping by myself last night. I can't remember at any time we have slept by ourselves during this whole year. My bed was cold; I was begging for your warmth. I had dreams of you last night, Hermione. Your arms were wrapped around me, and I felt complete. I need you. I need you with me. Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this._

_I'm sorry for everything, I'm so, so, so sorry…_

Malfoy's hand burned as he finished writing his letter. His hand muscles were cramping as he had written each word, hesitating, wondering if he should go through with this. He had spent almost the whole day locked in his room, and his stomach growled impatiently. He closed his eyes, his mind woozy as he strained for effort. With more travail, he went to his Arabian box, unlocking it, and finding pictures of a smiling and unmoving Hermione and himself. There were hundreds of pictures of them cozy together, their arms wrapped around each other; their faces close but not kissing. They were pictures of a normal relationship, however confined to one room.

He picked out his favorite picture and sealed it in an envelope with his letter, her name scrawled on top. Malfoy padded over to her room, his slick hair plastered against his forehead. _Damn the heat_, he thought, his hand placed cautiously on top of the knob. Hermione was a very clever witch, trained to bewitch anything to any intruder with harmful intentions. However, he had to forego it, and when he pushed inside, he saw the rumpled sheets that he had given her. They were evidence that she had had a fitful sleep, tossing and turning. (_Because of me?_)

It had been a while since he had been in her room. He scanned it cautiously, golden from the light illuminating from the window. And then his eyes landed on the notebook that she had carried with her last night. Unable to contain his curiosity, he was mesmerized towards it, his hand lightly reaching out to touch it. It felt electric under his fingertips, and when he opened it, it seemed to turn exactly to words that he did not want to see. It showed him how many times she had agonized over him – how many times she had kept her thoughts to herself.

His throat closed up, the heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets. He would not cry. He deserved every word – this, he knew, and in frustration, he ripped the page out. Malfoy felt satisfied when he saw the excerpt floating away from him. So he began to tear out other pages of Hermione's pain from him, watching them land in various spots in her dormitory. When there was no more pages left of him, he closed it, binding the notebook tightly, with his envelope on top.

He left quickly to grab something to eat, glancing sparingly with recognition at the grinning, cunning faces from his Slytherin counterparts. He stole a glance at the Gryffindor table, his eyes automatically searching for the Head Girl. She was there, laughing at Weasley's antics, Potty's arm draped over the female redhead's shoulders. Malfoy glared at Hermione, at the Weasel, and she seemed to have noticed his eyes boring into her. She turned, her smile still in place from Weasley's joke, and she looked at Malfoy with an almost dismissive expression before returning to Weasley.

Malfoy was furious. He took his food gallantly from the table, stalking off towards the doors to exit with a flourish of his robes. He caught Hermione staring at him, her lips pursed into a frown. He curled his lip at her in a traditional sneer and walked back to their rooms.

He went into Hermione's room and curled into a fetal position on her bed, her sheets covering his half-nude body. He had stripped himself of clothing when entering her unbearably warm den, already sweating from his exertion of walking from the door to her bed. (_How could she possibly live in this?_)

He attempted to trace Hermione's lithe form against his body, recalling how her body looked like when she was snuggled against him. He fell asleep, still envisioning her in his arms, her head settled on his chest, lazily drawing patterns, her leg curled around his waist in a possessive manner. Yeah, he remembered that.


	4. Part 4 of 4: Valentine

_Part 4 of 4: Valentine._

Hermione had entered her room alone and surprised at the mess, discovering a sleeping towhead in her bed. Papers fluttered through the slight breeze, yellowed curling parchments covering every part of her floor. Hermione walked closer to Malfoy's prone form, his white blonde locks plastered to his forehead, the covers kicked back.

She saw the envelope lying in plain view; her curiosity peaked at what Malfoy could possibly write to her. She ripped open the envelope from the end, feeling something thick and thin. She pulled out the letter and the photograph together, reading the letter first before looking at the picture. Hermione's lips thinned as she read each word, her eyes blinking rapidly, her breathing constricted. She tried so hard not to cry, but when she looked at the picture, she couldn't help the tears that escaped.

Draco's head raised, and while he stared with his gray eyes at Hermione, she stepped on the pieces of her journal _(I'll make him pay later)_ and laid down next to him. He kissed her lips, while her tears made his cheeks wet. They whispered for forgiveness to each other; they placed their lips on each other's bare skin, absorbing the heat, the pain.

They made love to each other, side by side, eyes locked.

So it had been the way it had been before. But as much contentment, as much _happiness_ they seemed to be filled with, it didn't seem to ever be enough: the silent nods of agreement or raised eyebrows or secret touches. His taunts were still as rude as ever, though Hermione had learned (and relearned) to ignore his catcalls, his references to dirty blood. On many occasions, she still brought out her wand, and a ghost of a smirk appeared on her lips, reminiscent of his, almost joking as if to say: _if only they knew_.

But in the privacy of their bedroom, they stayed close, as if trying to alleviate the time they had wasted. Their touches still incited a heat of passion coiling inside of them, and even while they spoke, they were always close – whether it be physically or emotionally. They were beginning to show tenderness that they did not want to acknowledge. They did not want to believe that their feelings were deeper than they had at first imagined them to be.

Graduation day was looming closer.

As per custom, the Head Boy and Girl were to concoct a speech for their fellow graduating peers. This year, the seventh years would stay a day later than the rest of the Hogwarts' body, preparing to don themselves their House colors for the last time. Some nights Hermione and Draco would sit huddled next to each other or across each other, testing certain phrases for the speeches. They even challenged each other's writing abilities, laughing and poking fun.

He would waggle his eyebrows at her unintentional innuendoes while she would be crying from mirth and clutching her sides as he purposely spoke his speech with sexual references. And she would squeal when he picked her up or leaned over her on their couch, his pelvis in between her legs. They had spent most of their nights together: on the floor, on the couch, in his bed, in her bed…

Finally, the day before graduation had arrived. Hermione and Draco promised to each other that they would spend their last night together in the confines of their room. They just had to figure out a way to get out of their own House's parties.

They were both in precarious situations – Gryffindor's Golden Trio was expected to stay together, to provide hope and assurance to the side of the Light. The House of Slytherin, contrary to popular belief, would have to do the same. Malfoy would allow them their five minutes of pleasure as children before they were let free to make their choice to be a soldier for their Side.

Hermione's back was pressed against the portrait of their Common Room, Draco's left hand buried in her hair, his right circled around her waist to bring her closer. Both of Hermione's legs were wrapped around Draco's waist, her heels pressing him harder against her. She was panting against his ear while his lips were on her neck. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, and Draco knew that it would take some time before he would be able to walk normally to the Slytherin dungeons.

"Draco, Draco, I _really_ have to go! Harry and Ron would worry about me if I don't show up on time!" Hermione squealed, her body squirming against him.

"They'll worry about you if you don't show up fifteen minutes early." His reply was muffled against her hair and both of his hands settled on her hips. Wrenching his face away from her curls, "The more you do that, the more that I'm not going to _allow_ you to leave."

"Oh, now I need your permission?" Right on cue, Hermione's temper flared, and she stopped wriggling, pushing him away so that she could see his face. Her brow was furrowed, and she looked ready to swing into a full tirade before Draco dropped her and swooped down and caught her lips in a kiss.

"Just kidding, sweet," he grinned at her before swatting her lightly on the bum. "Go on, go on, we wouldn't want your precious friends to hurt themselves so soon."

Hermione had turned before he had finished speaking and she was almost out the portrait. When he finished, she glanced over her shoulder with an indecipherable look clouding her face. Another second and her brown hair disappeared from sight.

Draco let the portrait close shut and waited for five minutes before languidly heading down toward the dungeons.

Gryffindor Tower cheered loudly when they saw Hermione peek into the Common Room. She smiled but broke into a real grin when she saw Harry and Ron, standing in the center, waiting for her to complete their trio. When she ran to them, knocking them over (there already was a faint stench of vodka on the boys), they hugged each other fiercely. Bringing themselves to their feet, Harry and Ron both kissed her cheeks, and turning around to the circle of people, Hermione cleared her throat.

"As Head Girl and fellow classmate – "

A couple of people laughed while Ron hugged her waist fiercely, "Aww, Hermione, I don't think we need a speech…"

"Oh, hush up, Ron!" More laughs and Hermione and Ron beamed at the crowd before Hermione began to speak again, "As I was saying before, as Head Girl and fellow classmate, all I have to say is that I wish us all the best of luck in our lives." Cheers erupted, but she raised her hand along with her voice, "And I have so much faith in everyone that I know we will all make the right decision. And now, let the party begin!"

Several hands that were holding cups were thrust into her face, and she grabbed two of them and drank. The party ensued, and she spent the rest of her time at the party laughing and smiling and holding and memorizing.

In the Slytherin common room, it was not much different, except Malfoy did not prepare a speech. He entered the room, people fell silent, and when he was given a cup, he took a sip, and raised it to the crowd: "This is what we have been waiting for, since we were born. We made it. Cheers."

His drink was downed in no time, and time flew.

Hours had passed when Malfoy stumbled into the Head Room, slicking his hair back, a lopsided grin on his face. Hermione was already waiting, he noticed, and he strode over to her prone form on the couch and scooped her into his arms.

He decided to bring her into his room and she snuggled against his chest, her eyes opening and glittering.

"Your room was always too hot for my liking, anyway," he sat her down on the bed watching her and he began to take off his clothes.

She copied his movements, and soon they were both naked. He held her hands, bringing one to press flat against his heartbeat. Hermione felt his heart thumping madly and knew that hers was the same, and she brought his hand up to hers to feel it, as well. His hand slipped down to caress her breast, his fingers rolling her nipple into a hard nub, and he bent his head to suckle. She leaned her head back, lowering herself flat on her back. She snaked an arm around his neck, bringing him down for a kiss.

"Don't go slow," she whispered. She bit her lip, her eyes searching into his.

He nodded.

They felt their hips against their own, pushing into each other. He grabbed her thighs tightly while he was on top of her, her nails digging half-moons into his back. He lifted her up so that she was partially sitting on top of him, riding him, his fingers splayed against the curve of her spine. Hermione leaned her forehead against his, brushing white strands away, and she clutched him fiercely as she moved fluidly on him. He closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip as he spilled his seed inside her.

He murmured against her temple, falling to his side.

When they spoke, their words held a hazed quality to them.

"What if we don't see each other again, Draco?"

"Must you always bring up depressing things after experiencing probably the most amazing sex you will ever have?"

Her fingers that were drawing lazy circles slapped his pectoral. "Must you always be such a prat?"

Draco laughed at her, "You know that's one of the things that you find _most_ charming of me."

She chuckled into his chest, kissing him lightly. He turned serious, his eyes staring above her head. "I'd rather not think about tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, so on and so forth. Just…" His hand reached up to hook her curls around his fingers. "Love's alive right now, in this room, just you and me. This may – " and he dared not say what they both wished against, "It may be fleeting, but _tonight_, tonight is ours."

Hermione sucked in her breath, deeply before exhaling slowly. "Tonight is ours," she repeated. Draco draped his arm over her, bringing her closer to him, their bodies rising and falling in perfect synchrony. "Tonight," she kissed him, her head leaning against his shoulder, "I'm still by your side.

"You might have to leave but not tonight."

Draco grabbed his sheet and threw it on top of them, covering their bodies.

"For seven years I have walked through the Great Hall, regarding Hogwarts as my second home. For seven years, I have sat with my peers, regarding them as my second family. And as we have all grown older, we will be under our _own_ jurisdiction, and the time will come for us to make our own decisions, the guidance from others rare. It is time for us to embrace what we believe in, what is _rooted in our hearts_. As long as we have the confidence to follow our dreams, nothing can stop us from achieving our goals…"

"Now is the time to show the world what we are capable of; now we can fully show the world our upbringing and education. As is the case, we are what we are, and we have _choices_ that we must choose carefully…"

Their speeches were over and as Malfoy let the last word of his speech linger, the audience erupted in applause, his parents clapping and smiling faintly at him. Hermione was staring over at her own parents, wiping their tears and beaming. It was customary for the Head Boy to escort the Head Girl down the stairs, and her hand was rather stiff as he held onto her fingers, approaching their parents.

As the Headmaster announced their feast to be over, students were milling around, talking to their parents or running to the rooms to say goodbye for once and for all to their beloved school.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood in the center, watching Malfoy, Parkinson, Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott approach them. Soon, Neville and Seamus were by the trio's side.

"Today is the last day we can spend in this…haven," Malfoy's lip curled at his last word, everyone's faces set in grim determination.

"Actually, Malfoy, today is the last day someone will save your hide," Ron quipped, moving slightly forward. Their hands were jammed into their pockets, clutching their wands.

"I don't need anyone to save me, _Weasley_, unlike you," Malfoy glanced at Harry and let his eyes remain on Hermione before flicking back to Ron. Ron's ears flamed, but no one else said a word.

"Is there any other reason for you annoying us with your presence?" Harry spoke with a tired voice, his words low that the people standing across from him had to strain to hear.

Malfoy pushed his shoulders back, his back straight. He extended his hand. "This will most likely be the last time that I will ever be this close to you, Potter. And I expect you to fight without holding anything back."

Harry stared at Malfoy's hand, studying it. Malfoy clenched his teeth until Harry grabbed on and shook. "I never will, and I never did."

Hermione looked at Malfoy, her gaze cool and unemotional. "Time to run back to your Father, Malfoy. I can see him beckoning." She grabbed Harry and Ron's arms, and Malfoy and his crew turned as well, their backs to each other.

Malfoy and Hermione saw each other one last time before they said their goodbyes. He grabbed her face roughly, snogging her as if there was nothing else that mattered in the world.

She was crying, and Draco knew that nothing he did would comfort her. He couldn't even comfort himself. So he let her cry, and he felt himself crying, his eyelids scrunched tightly shut so that she wouldn't see. Another kiss, and he pulled back, trying to swallow the lodge in his throat. Hermione didn't even bother trying to hide it. She clung to him, sobbing onto his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck. He held her tightly, if only for a few more seconds, before disentangling from her grip.

Draco rubbed her arms soothingly and planted a kiss on the crown of her head. "Hermione, there isn't anything that I can give you to make you remember that what we had…_have_ between us was…for lack of a better word, _real_. I have no ring for you, no necklace, nothing for you to remember me by. Hopefully this is enough, hopefully…" He trailed off, not knowing what else to say. He kissed her lightly, before letting her stare at his retreating back.

That was the last time they saw each other for Lord knows how long.

To them it was years, it was a millennia before they saw each other. Really, it was only a matter of months, but Hermione had stopped counting the days. Malfoy never bothered counting, desperate to save himself.

When they finally saw each other again, they were stumbling across a field of dead bodies. Hermione was bent over, trying to keep someone alive before she felt someone's wand tip pressed against her temple. She bit her lip and closed her eyes. She dared not move.

"Get up," someone whispered harshly. She slowly rose to her feet, her side partially visible. "Face me." She faced him, her eyes trying to look defiantly into the hooded figure. There was a slight stiffening from the person who was holding the wand.

"Hermione Granger."

Hermione knew that voice, knew that voice from childhood, from her dreams. She felt a rush of blood surging against her ears. "Draco Malfoy."

"It's been a long time," he had dropped his wand and lowered his hood. His hair shone like a beacon, and he stepped back five paces.

Hermione stepped back another five paces, her head held high. "Yes. It's been very long." She stuck her hand into her pocket, bringing out her own wand. He did nothing when she pointed it straight at him.

He smiled ruefully, and Hermione's vision became slightly blurry when she began to tear.

"At least we weren't alone."

"We still have each other."

Hermione's arm shook and she wanted to put it down, but he urged her to keep it up. Just two simple words and they wouldn't have to fight anymore. They wouldn't have to…

They stared straight into each other's eyes, wanting nothing more than to see if they still knew each other exactly as they had when they were sharing a school, when they were sharing a room, when their lives were so intimately connected.

"When I count to three.

"One…

"Two…

"Three…"

They both breathed deeply before green light flashed from the tips of their wands.

**Finished 7:03pm, July 17, 2005.**

**Edited November 22, 2005.**

_Excerpts from Various Notes Strewn Around the Bedroom_ has currently been nominated during Round 4 at **Dangerous Liaisons**( **www dot impervius dot org slash dangerous slash awards slash** )for the **"I Never Really Loved You Anyway"** **Award** (Best Drama/Angst) and **"Why Didn't I Think of That" Award** (Most Original Plot).

Please read the other stories in each of the categories and vote for the one that you deem best!  
Thank you )


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